Home
by Lalalupin
Summary: "It was then, that he realised, home was where she was. She was his home." Spoilers: set between Red John and My Blue Heaven. Jane/Lisbon.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I had this plot bunny form before Red John aired, and it's set in the months that follow. Based on the song "Home" by Michael Buble, which is actually a really cool song, and if you listen to it, this story might make a little more sense. I'm guessing this is gonna be about three chapters. Thanks so much for checking it out! ^.^**

**Home  
Chapter One **

Perhaps his biggest regret was the fact that he never had the chance to say goodbye to her. Ten years of working together, bantering, laughing, being partners, and all he had time for was a hastily spoken message on her answerphone.

"_I'm gonna miss you."_

It wasn't a lie. It had been months since Jane had fled Sacramento, crossing the border in the dead of the night, convinced he could start a new life in South America.

Why couldn't he? He had finally had his revenge, after all.

Killing Red John, Sheriff Thomas McAllister, had been intimate, chilling. He had killed the man with his bare hands, just as he had assured Lisbon he would, years ago when the evasive serial killer was still out of reach.

Jane couldn't move on, though. He had naively expected that a physical weight would lift from his shoulders the moment Red John was killed. Months later, and that weight was still there.

It was guilt.

Guilt that he ultimately caused the CBI to shut down, thereby making the SCU team, his surrogate family, lose their jobs.

Guilt that he had left Lisbon, without truly thanking her for everything she had done.

Guilt that his family was still dead.

And now, he sat in a dingy, loud bar somewhere south of Mexico, wincing as the cool alcohol burnt down his throat. The population easily doubled that in Sacramento, and yet, Jane had never been lonelier. The locals had never bothered to approach the strange, remorseful foreigner, and in turn, Jane didn't make an effort to get to know anyone.

Jane slammed his glass on the bar top, and made his leave. Outside, he had to squint against the sun's harsh rays, the lighting quite assaulting after being in the dusty, dark building. He looked around, at the tall, terracotta buildings, and the unsealed, sandy roads. The masses of people milling about in the streets, and the ocean just beyond the horizon.

Jane had always planned to flee to South America after killing Red John, and anticipated the excitement of starting life fresh in a new, unknown country, where he wasn't a wanted criminal, but just Patrick Jane. He had craved anonymity. The chance to start over, and make a home out of South America. He now despised it. He had decided mere days after arriving that the place could never be his home.

A patter of footsteps behind Jane alerted him to turn around.

"Mister Jane!" the boy yelled.

Carlos, with black, mussed hair, olive skin, average features, was the only person who had approached Jane after his arrival.

Jane considered the child to be a friend.

He smiled. "Hey kid."

The boy grinned back. "Wanna go to the beach?"

"I was already on my way there," Jane replied, and continued walking.

Carlos had to run to keep up with the American's long strides, as they meandered down to the beachside.

XXX

Settled in the sand, side by side, Jane threw shells aimlessly into the shimmering ocean.

"What's America like, Mister Jane?" the boy asked.

"You live in America, Carlos."

He pouted. "You know what I mean," he remarked.

Jane chuckled. "It's… quieter. Not as colourful. But the people can be nice," he paused. "People make good eggs in Sacramento," he added.

Carlos, who had been momentarily distracted by something moving in the grainy sand, jerked his head at Jane. "Eggs? _That's_ what you miss?" he laughed.

"I miss the people mostly," Jane told him sombrely.

"Why don't you go back then?" the boy asked naively.

"I would like to go back home," Jane agreed.

"So why don't you?" he asked again.

Jane turned to face the child. "It's a lot more complicated than that, kid," he told him with a sad smile.

Carlos pouted again, thinking. Moments later, he said, "If you can't go home, why don't you write to her?"

"Who? You mean Lisbon?" Jane asked. He had often talked fondly about the team, and silently commended the boy for deducing how close he and the boss had been.

Another nod.

Jane smiled ruefully, turning back to face the ocean. Endless possibilities… Where would he and Lisbon stand had he not killed Red John? "It's complicated," he said again.

"Why?"

Jane shook his head fondly. Ever the questioning child. "She wouldn't want to talk to me,"

There was also the pressing fact that he was still a wanted criminal, and making contact with any of the team could alert the FBI. He didn't want Lisbon and the team to be in any more trouble because of him.

Hopefully they had recovered from the last shit storm he had caused.

"I'm sure she would, Mister Jane," the boy pressed.

"Oh yeah? How are you so sure?"

The boy grinned impishly, eyes shining. "I just am," he said evasively.

The boy reminded Jane of himself, and he soon found he was wondering how Lisbon would like Carlos.

He dug his fingernails into his palms, and shoved his hands into the uncomfortably warm sand. God, he missed her. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he tried to force himself not to think of Lisbon.

It was no good. Jane had grown accustomed to spending most of his waking hours thinking about the dynamic detective. The way she smiled at him, so full of love and wonder, when he did things that impressed her. Like the time he bought her a pony for a birthday. He missed making her angry, and making her blush when he complimented her. Brushing her hair out of her jacket when he helped her put it on. Holding her close to him, silhouetted by a sunset much like the ones he experienced in South America.

Why didn't he say goodbye?

Of course, he tried to say goodbye, when he was convinced he would reveal Red John at his old Malibu home.

It wasn't the same, though.

He gazed out at the sun, hanging precariously over the horizon, making the beach set fire. He could almost smell her, and feel her form pressed up against his. Her scent, Jane realised, was one he unconsciously started to compare to safe, welcome places.

_Home. _

"Mister Jaaaane," Carlos sung, trying to get his attention.

Jane scrambled to his feet, and ran a shaky hand through his hair, unknowingly dislodging sand into his golden locks. "Sorry kid, I spaced out for a sec," Jane tried to sound nonchalant.

He raised a noncommittal eyebrow. "It's getting dark. I should be heading home."

Jane nodded. "Yeah, me too."

"You wanna come over for dinner? Mama cooks real good," the boy insisted. "I think she has some spare paper and a pen too, so you can write that letter too," he grinned, and waggled his eyebrows at an unspoken suggestion.

The corner of Jane's mouth turned up slightly at the offer. Going to his place to a tin of _who-knew-what_ for dinner wasn't too appealing at that moment. And while he wasn't actually planning on writing those letters to Lisbon, she was his only link home.

XXX

An hour later, after a stale meal of staple food, Jane was seated at the crude family desk, pen in hand, a crisp piece of paper lying face up in front of him. The perks of living on the South American coast, he mused, was the fact that the world in front of him was canvased by the ever darkening beach, waves crashing lazily onto the sand. It was serene, and beautiful, and Jane felt a pang as he thought he would've loved to share it with Lisbon.

Carlos's mother had insisted a good, home cooked meal would help him get over his homesickness. Instead, the meal made him realise what poverty the people in this town were living in, and he was still mourning over the loss of the things he used to take for granted.

He didn't deserve their kindness or hospitality, and yet Carlos and his family, though struggling to feed their family of six, pleaded with Jane to stay for dinner.

But, Jane thought, he didn't deserve Lisbon's love, either. Or the open, welcoming arms of the rest of the team.

Jane tapped the pen against the desk, and stared out at the beach. He took some comfort at the thought that Lisbon, the rest of the team, anyone who still had sentimental value in his heart, could be looking at the same moon and stars that he was.

Where to start?

His and Lisbon's story couldn't be told in just a few words, in a meagre letter.

All the things he was sorry for couldn't be written down either. The list was far too long. His apology couldn't be generalised either.

"_I'm sorry. For everything." _

He couldn't express in words how much she meant to him, how sorry he was, how much she missed her.

What the hell was he doing?

He resisted the urge to hurl the pen through the window and into the night.

He had done the same with his life, disappearing without a trace. He owed Lisbon at least this much.

"Are you alright, Mister Jane?"

Even Carlos's mother addressed him with such formality. Like he was superior.

Did they not understand or care about his past?

He turned to the older woman and smiled. "I'm fine, thank you,"

She smiled, relieved. "Just call if you need anything, okay?"

He nodded and turned back to the blank piece of paper.

The door creaked closed, and Jane was plunged into silence once more.

Apologising for everything he had done to her would take years. He started with the most recent one.

Bowing down to the sheet of paper, Jane wrote,

_Dearest Teresa,_

_I'm sorry for leaving you. _

_-Jane_

He sighed, disappointed at his efforts, or lack thereof. Damn that kid. He should have been reassuring her that he was fine, the people were treating him well, and he missed her like hell.

He ran a hand through his hair, and scrawled underneath his name,

_PS. I hope you're doing well. I miss you. _

If it came to it, he would write her a new letter every week, hell, even every day, so he could apologise for everything. To convince her she was loved and missed, and he was so sorry.

Every day until he came home.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Reviews are very much appreciated! Next chapter should be up soon :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks so much for the feedback and support on the first chapter, I'm so glad you guys enjoyed it! I must apologise for the delay, I had most of this written up before My Blue Heaven, but didn't get it up. Then I couldn't decide if I wanted to change it in order for it to fit into the episode better. Well, this is the end result. Enjoy :)**

**Chapter 2**

In the eighteen months that followed, Jane began to feel more at ease in the South American town, but it couldn't compare to the bustling streets of Sacramento. He spent his days at the beach, his bleached hair and tanned skin a giveaway of his new self-proclaimed hobby. Jane also made a habit of writing a letter to Lisbon every week, each with a new thing he was sorry for.

_I'm sorry for hurting you._

_I'm sorry for not letting you in._

The one he never sent though, because the words were too cold and flat, in his opinion, _I'm sorry for not loving you like you deserved. _

In Jane's view, his love confession should be said to her face, when he finally came home. She deserved nothing less, of course. But, then again, she had no idea of the extents his love for her reached.

He banished all thoughts and notions that Lisbon had moved on, found someone to love her, fully and unrequited.

Of course, Lisbon needed a man like that in her life, and Jane wasn't kidding himself; he was far too emotionally scarred to be _that man_. It scared him that Lisbon may have moved on, and Jane spent much of his first year in South America fearing that she wouldn't want him when he came back.

Of course, he would've stopped at nothing to make her see that he was so in love with her it hurt.

And thus, the letter remained tucked in a drawer, never sent, but constantly read and re-read by Jane.

He stopped believing in the allusions that his home was a physical place in which he could return to once his name had been cleared and the FBI stopped their relentless manhunt to find him.

Rather, it was around the time he wrote that unsent letter that he realised home was where _she_ was. _She was his home._ The times he dreamt of home, Lisbon was _there_, so tantalisingly close, but still out of reach, taunting him, begging him to come home.

The dreams were soon considered nightmares, the fact that he had left without saying a proper, sincere goodbye still haunting him.

Carlos and his family soon became Jane's closest friends. Of course, they couldn't compare to the Serious Crimes Unit at the CBI. Lisbon and Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt had become his _family_ over the ten years they worked together. He just hadn't truly realised or respected it until he left their lives. Carlos's family was nice, but they couldn't substitute the family he found at the CBI. Hell, all of Carlos's siblings were too young to drink alcohol, and the family had never tried the American delicacies of pizza and donuts.

XXX

Lisbon's first reply came a few weeks after Jane sent her the letter. The damn letter was about a page long, expressing Lisbon's regret and guilt on the fact that she wasn't able to stop him, and help him get through what he'd done. It pained him that she ultimately blamed herself for not being able to prevent him throwing his life away.

After that, her replies were very rare, and each one caused Jane to pine for his partner and home. Lisbon's answers were very evasive, never giving Jane much insight into the agent's new life after Red John, but always reassuring him that Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho were fine. The same couldn't be said for Lisbon though, because she would never tell.

Of course, he was just relieved to have some form of contact with his partner.

XXX

Except for the letters though, which were his only link back to 'real life', Jane realised he was stuck in some sort of limbo; a place where he refused to move on with life, content with living in a dream world.

Jane found his unexpected ticket home at the Mexican equivalent of an American diner, in which he visited religiously for a breakfast of scrambled eggs and tea.

The tea and eggs brought comfort to Jane, especially on the days when he was drowning in despair, and risked buying a plane ticket back to California.

The employees at the beachside diner all knew Jane and his preferences by heart, and were surprisingly fond of the American and his weird tastes. Considering the man arrived wearing three-piece suits, and quickly transitioned to light shirts and sarongs, showing no signs of suffering from culture shock, he deserved a little respect.

Except the damn man refused to drink coffee, even going as far as bribing some of the workers in order for them to continue stocking his favourite brews of tea.

Jane never lost his love for dogs, and passionately greeted one of his particular favourites, Hugo, as he approached his usual table, which overlooked the ocean. Except, on the coast, one couldn't escape the ocean, and Jane was fast hungering for the land locked American cities. That way, going to the beach would be more special, and appreciated.

Especially if the trips were shared with one Teresa Lisbon.

That morning, Jane planned on writing her another letter during breakfast, then posting it on his way back to the place where he was staying. It wasn't a house, and it most certainly wasn't his home, so Jane hardly considered it to be more than a place in which he merely existed.

As pen was about to meet paper, the woman at the neighbouring table caught Jane's eye. Accounting for her rusty Spanish, she was obviously an American like himself, and she looked so uncannily like his wife that he didn't know what made him talk to her in the first place.

The reason for his fleeing to South America, other than to escape the FBI, was so he could finally move on from his old life.

Of course, he could tell the woman also had ulterior motives as to why she was in such an unknown South American food joint, and he was determined to find out what those motives were.

"Hello," he blurted out after she finished ordering.

She glanced up from the book she was reading, and gave him a reluctant smile. "Hi," she replied.

He grinned back, elated he finally had someone to talk to in English. "American, right?"

"Did my rusty Spanish make it that obvious?" she asked with a rueful laugh.

He laughed too, and the conversation lulled. "I'm sorry, you're reading. Please, continue," he said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "I'm Patrick by the way," he added.

"Kim," she said with another smile, before returning her gaze to her book.

His smile widened at the sight of his eggs and tea coming to the table. "Thanks a lot, Antonio," he told the waiter in Spanish.

The waiter smiled, and went back up to the counter.

As Jane tucked into the scrambled eggs, he pondered on the fact that these outdoor diners were all but obsolete back home, and every time the team drove by one on their out of town cases, Jane's request to stop for something to eat fell on deaf ears.

Except Rigsby, of course. He was up for food anytime.

Jane smiled regretfully and set his fork down. He always lost his appetite when he thought of the home and family he lost through the brutal act of killing Red John. Even two years after the incident, the wounds were still open, and refusing to heal.

"Not hungry?" someone asked him in his native tongue.

He turned to Kim. "Not really," he admitted with a guilty smile.

"You wanna go for a walk?" she asked casually.

He nodded wholeheartedly, craving to talk to _someone_ who could have the capacity to understand what he still felt.

_Being understood is an underrated pleasure. _

He guilelessly thought that this woman would be the one to understand. Jane stood up, plans for writing another letter to Lisbon completely forgotten.

Later, when he remembered the abandoned letter, he thought ironically that he could apologise in his next letter for not writing his last one.

"Have you been along the beach this time of morning?" he asked her.

She shook her head, and he beckoned for her to follow him.

XXX

Before going down to the beach, Jane had received a call from the hotel. An agent Abbott had arrived, and was staying there. Jane didn't tell Kim about the call, enjoying the allusion that he was 'normal', and telling himself he would go see the FBI agent later.

"So how long have you been here for, Patrick?" Kim asked as they walked along the beach.

He shrugged. "Almost two years. I lose track of the time." It was a lie, of course. He was very conscious of every day that passed when he wasn't with Lisbon and the rest of the team.

"Mind if I ask why you decided to make the move?" she asked.

Again, Jane had the sneaking suspicion she was here with other, questionable motives. "Not at all," he replied. "I just decided America wasn't right anymore," he told her.

Another lie. If he had the choice, he would've chosen to stay in America. But, killing another man could definitely change a person's plans.

"Ah," she sounded. "How do you like it down here?"

"Besides the language barrier and initial culture shock, it's nice, yeah," he replied with a grin.

Jane stooped down to pick up a shell that had caught his eye a few meters back. He spent the past few minutes trying to think of an untraceable way to send it to Lisbon. Letters were easy, sure, but a shell was a completely different matter. He smiled as he dusted the sand off it on his shirt.

"Is that for someone special?" Kim asked with a smile.

"Could be," Jane answered evasively. Of course it was for someone special. He was sending it back home.

He continued walking, looking forward to sending it the shell to Lisbon. It reminded him of her. Shiny and smooth and flawless inside, but scarred and damaged yet so beautiful on the outside, just like his little firecracker.

He pocketed it, and turned to Kim, whom he'd momentarily forgotten about.

"What about you? Is there anybody special in your life?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "Could be," she told him with a smile.

XXX

Later that day, after saying goodbye to Kim, with plans for dinner on the table, Jane went to go see Abbott.

After the agent laid down the terms, stating the FBI were willing to drop the terms against Jane if he came to work for them, Jane asked the question that had been nagging at him all day,

"How did you find me?"

"The letters to your girlfriend, Lisbon," Abbott had answered tauntingly.

Perhaps the letters weren't as untraceable as he had originally thought.

XXX

For the first time in his new life, Jane ran, all the way to where he was staying, thoughts of Lisbon and the rest of the team fogging his vision and plaguing his thoughts. The clouds rolled in and the heavens opened, just as Jane opened his front door. He clutched the napkin that bore his terms for coming back to the US.

_1. Must work directly with Teresa Lisbon. _

He put the napkin next the shell on his desk and stroked it with two fingers before collapsing onto the chair.

Of course, it was a given that he was going to go home eventually. He couldn't stay away forever. From Lisbon, and the rest of the team.

He ran a hand through his hair as his other reached for a pen and a piece of paper. He had considered writing to the other members of the team, but didn't know what to say. And considering Lisbon's big move out of Sacramento, Jane had a feeling the rest of the team had left also.

Lisbon didn't give him any new addresses though.

Did she appreciate the letters he sent, or just tolerate them?

He had left her before either of them truly had the chance to confront their own feelings for each other. Was she mad at him?

Thoughts of Lisbon kept him awake at night, and going through the day. The idea of being able to hold her against him once more, when they finally saw each other again was one he played in his head in so many ways.

Sometimes, if he tried hard enough, he could still feel her fingers digging into his back, holding on for dear life, as he took her phone, clutching her close to him.

_You have no idea what you mean to me._

He knew she was still hurting before he left her. Ten years of working together, and he hadn't confessed the feelings they both knew he felt.

Kim's words echoed in his mind,

"_You know, going back doesn't always mean going backwards. It can mean moving forwards." _

Even though he knew he was going home in mere hours, he felt obliged to write Lisbon one more letter that consisted of just a few words,

_I'm coming back home. _


End file.
